


Oasis

by Lady_Ganesh



Category: Trigun
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-01
Updated: 2008-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:51:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vash dreams of rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oasis

**Author's Note:**

> A livelongnmarry fic. So much love to [](http://tiggymalvern.livejournal.com/profile)[**tiggymalvern**](http://tiggymalvern.livejournal.com/) for betaing, and for [](http://mendax.livejournal.com/profile)[**mendax**](http://mendax.livejournal.com/) for donating and for getting me to write these guys again!

Vash dreams of rain.

He dreams of water pelting the surface, tiny impacts in the sand, all of it moving in slow motion like the movies Rem had on the ship.

It is always the same dream; the sky opens and the rain falls, silently _he knows there should be sound but the movies had no sound, so it is quiet, quiet like midnight, like July after the explosion finally settled, like the hollow anger Knives inspires in him_ and it looks like the ground rises to meet the rain, tiny rivulets of sand rising upward, a dance between land and water, and the plants-- the ones with the little 'p'-- the plants coming to life under the sand, growing, changing, the world transforming.

In the dream, he is on his back. His coat is _back_ open, his shirt is open, his face open to the sky. He can feel the rain pelting his face, smell the scent of the flowers, taste water on his lips.

He takes his sunglasses off and feels the drops on his eyelids, his skin, his hair.

In the dream, he is clean again. He is innocent again.

 

"Ericks," the girl says. "Wake up."

Vash opens his water-colored eyes to the desert. His wounds are almost healed; only the hollow ache in his right arm and the phantom pains where his other arm should be remind him of what happened.

He wants to forget it all, the irritating, persistent girls, the pain, the nightmare of power coursing through his body.

He puts his glasses on and has to stop himself from the routine of half a century; no coat to put on, different boots, no gel in his hair. Just the endless line of scars, and his missing arm, and his impossible memories.

He goes to work and immerses himself in the routine, in the mindless distraction of physical labor, though it's never quite physical or intense enough for him to truly lose himself in. Lina helps though, loud and demanding as she is. He does her bidding, and sometimes Granny's bidding, and wears his smile as the mask it is, wielding ignorance as another shield against the reality of things.

 

It is only when the aching in his arm stops that the dream changes. He starts going into town then, and perhaps it is the subdued chaos of the market, or the wretched scent of the bars, but when he lies in the desert, he is no longer alone.

The presence is familiar, achingly so, and the dream no longer feels so innocent. Vash knows-- _he is Vash, always in the dream, never Ericks_\-- knows this person, knows the way his body responds, knows his scent and taste; he feels it all, though in the dream, all he does is stretch out his fingers toward him, trying, desperately, to touch--

"Ericks!"

\--and then he wakes, and the only thing he keeps from the dream is the longing.

 

_Of course,_ he thinks when Wolfwood comes into the bar. _Of course._

He has not seen Wolfwood in years, but oh, he has _seen_ Wolfwood; he remembers the dream now, dark suit, terrible hair, the scent of his cigarettes. He has tried not to think about him-- about anything-- but his memory has been holding the priest like a treasure, that face, that jaw, those long, thin fingers.

Wolfwood spots him in an instant, but Ericks has a role to play, and plays it. It helps that his hair has grown longer; it hides more of his face.

He takes his clothes off and feels Wolfwood's eyes on him like heat. Lina is the only thing that matters now, he tells himself.

That, and making a _really authentic_ barking sound.

 

He comes to, and it is Wolfwood again, right in his face, as abrasive and sharp as Vash remembers him. Wolfwood is overwhelming, too much smell, too much noise, too much _life,_ and news he had hoped never to hear.

An empty town. A name.

His brother is calling for him.

He puts his hand over his face.

It had been a nice town. It had been a nice _life._ Even as he says he will not leave it, he knows he must.

Rem had told him once that on the deserts of Earth, there were little islands of green and life where travellers could gain a measure of relief from the desert. They could drink, and sometimes shelter in the shade of a tree. But they were not the only green spots in the desert; there were mirages, too, which looked like water, plants, and life, but turned out to be nothing but an effect of the heat.

He looks into Wolfwood's blue eyes and suspects he's trading his oasis for an illusion.

 

In the Hotel Ann, Wolfwood kisses him, roughly, near-violently, as he does everything.

There is something expected about it; something expected about the way they fall together against the bed. Vash knows Wolfwood has his own agenda, but everyone does; another lesson he's learned with the stretch of the years.

He lets Wolfwood push him down against the mattress, and Wolfwood reaches up and inside his shirt. His hands are warm; as Vash knew they were, as he knew they would be.

"Damn," Wolfwood says. "Been a while?"

"Yeah," Vash said. Twenty years, he thinks, but Wolfwood doesn't need to know that. There are lots of things Wolfwood doesn't need to know; lots of things that don't matter right now. Wolfwood looks hungry, desperate; it's been a while for him too, Vash guesses.

Two years, looking for him. Vash has trouble imagining it. People have looked for him longer, but they've been looking for money or fame, not _ him._ He lets Wolfwood pull his shirt off.

"Miss me?"

"Like I'd miss a pain in my ass," Wolfwood says. He can't hide the hint of a smile on his face, though. He pulls his own jacket and shirt off. Wolfwood still stinks like cigarettes and stale alcohol. His skin feels rough against Vash's fingers.

"I didn't miss you either," Vash says, and pulls Wolfwood down to kiss him again.

 

In the dream, there is no Knives. Vash is calmer, his mask less strained and false. He smiles, and it is real, and so sweet it almost hurts to look at.

He takes his sunglasses off and closes his eyes, sensing Vash's warmth at his side.

The sky opens up, and Wolfwood feels the rain as it hits his face.


End file.
